


Your friend is not who he seems. Welcome... to Night Vale.

by 3byeol



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: AU from season 2, Alive Erica, Alive Vernon Boyd, Alternate Universe - Fusion, But Proofread By Me, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Magical Realism, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mysterious Hooded Figures, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Teen Wolf kink meme, The Author Regrets Nothing, Werewolf Jackson, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3byeol/pseuds/3byeol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sterek-flavored fusion of Teen Wolf/Welcome to Night Vale!</p>
<p>After his mother's death, Stiles Stilinski - Night Vale born and raised - moves to Beacon Hills to live with his estranged father. He quickly makes friends with Scott McCall, and the rest of the pack by extension, who do everything they can to keep him out of the paranormal tomfoolery that goes about town.</p>
<p>But while you can take a boy out of Night Vale, you can't take the Night Vale out of the boy.</p>
<p>(Well, not without a scalpel, anyway.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this](http://tnw-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/2665.html?thread=483433#t483433) prompt at the kink meme.
> 
> At this point in time I haven't finished all of the WTNV episodes so please be patient with me! If I make a blunder, do point it out.
> 
> **I would absolutely love to have a Beta for this story (and/or the multitude of other TW WIPs I have kicking around** \- so if you're available, please let me know. Even just an 'ideas guy' would be a great help!

Stiles stepped off the bus into Beacon Hills, breathed in the wet summer valley air and tried not to feel nervous.

Stiles had been born in Night Vale. He'd barely set foot outside of it his whole life. He'd never been to California, he'd never even met his dad before, and now he was moving here to live with him. Permanently.

It wasn't like this had been supposed to happen. This wasn't some agreement made long ago where his mom had promised to raise him until age 17 and then foist him off on his dad. His mom had made no secret of the fact that Stiles had a father - who still lived in her hometown, where the two of them had originally met - but they had separated before Stiles was even born. In fact, his father didn't even have any idea that Stiles existed.

Before recent events, anyway.

Having an estranged father had never really bothered Stiles growing up because some kids didn't even have fathers. Hell, some kids didn't even have parents. They were harvested from fossils in Radon Canyon or found hovering above previously-empty cribs in the hospital nursery, emitting eerie sounds.

His mother had raised him, moving to Night Vale shortly after discovering her pregnancy and finding work first as a public librarian and later changing careers after Telly the barber mysteriously went missing and a new cosmetologist was needed in town. She never brought home huge paychecks, but Stiles never really wanted for anything in his childhood. They had a nice one-story home near the elementary school, they went to Red Mesa for vacation every summer, she took him to play at the scrublands near the sand wastes and at Mission Grove Park. He was even a boy scout for a few years, before he got into basketball. His mother came to all his games and bought him pizza from Big Rico's afterwards. She even got on the PTA.

And that, Stiles thought, trying not to feel like his heart had been scooped out, had been what killed her. More specifically, the creatures that had come out of the portal through space-time that had ripped open during the meeting.

Night Vale had some strange laws, but he was still too young to legally live on his own. No one in town was deemed fit enough to take him in, so before he knew it he was packing up all of his stuff and getting shoved on a plane. And now, here he was: hundreds of miles away in Beacon Hills, California. Population: plus one Stiles.

Stiles pulled his duffel bags out of the bottom storage level of the bus, and tugged them over to the tiny bus shelter set back from the road. So. This was supposed to be Beacon Hills? It did have hills - certainly more than Night Vale, being so flat - but he didn't see any beacons. No helicopters overhead with search lights, no glow cloud, no nothing. Not even the moon was out to watch the citizens.

Suddenly, as if sensing his thoughts, two headlights pierced the darkness further up the road, a vehicle cresting over a hill. It came straight for him, slowing to a stop next to the bus shelter. Stiles squinted at it, making out a sleek white car with green stripes, a red-and-blue siren on the roof, and 'Beacon County Sheriff' printed along the side. Stiles sucked in a breath, trying to stay calm.

A man in a tan uniform came out of the cruiser, briefly rubbing his temple before he came over to Stiles. "Hey there," he said, smiling a bit stiffly. "I hope you weren't waiting long?"

Stiles shook his head 'no'. Silence fell over them, as he searched for something to say. Honestly, he just felt lost. He had been up for nearly 24 hours, taking buses and planes to make it from Night Vale to here, overwhelmed and overstimulated and somehow tired and wired at the same time. "Are you my dad?" he finally blurted out.

After a pause, the man - his father - nodded. "John Stilinski," he said, holding out his hand for Stiles to shake. "It's... it's nice to finally meet you, son."

Stiles didn't take his hand. Instead, he threw his arms around the man in a quick, but tight, hug. Sure, maybe he'd never met his father before, but he had seen a couple of old pictures, and his mother had always talked about him with a sad little smile on her face, and if his mom had loved him then Stiles was sure he would too. He pulled back, eyes catching on the shiny gold badge on his dad's chest.

"You're the _Sheriff_?" he asked, voice breaking with awe and surprise. The last his mom had known, his dad had only been applying for law enforcement training.

That drew a stronger smile from his dad, and a chuckle. "Yes, I'm the Sheriff."

"No _way_."

The Sheriff chuckled again. "Way." He looked over Stiles' shoulder. "Let me help you with your bags."

The duffels went into the trunk. His dad opened the passenger door of the cruiser for him, which Stiles was glad for, because he was afraid opening it himself might trip some sort of wire, or maybe blow darts. He buckled himself in, and the next thing they knew, they were already pulling into the driveway in front of a house. "Whoa, sorry," Stiles mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "I didn't mean to doze off."

His father just chuckled. "No, you must be exhausted. Let me show you to your room."

He led Stiles inside, gave him a newly-cut copy of the house key, and Stiles took a deep breath.

 _Stiles Stilinski_ , he thought to himself, _This is the first night of the rest of your life._

 

 

*

 

Bit by bit, day by day, Stiles began learning to cope. He had somewhat adjusted to his new house, his dad (although it had been a shock finding out that his dad didn't have a secret police force for some reason, and the lack of helicopters flying overhead that first night hadn't just been a fluke), and he had even started learning where some of the buildings in the town were. The post office, the grocery store, the station where his father worked, the public library, city hall, and the local high school.

In Night Vale he used to fall asleep - or pretend to sleep - to the sound of Latinate chanting from the park, mournful flutes from the desert, or to the local radio station. Now he fell asleep with an iPod, some downloaded recordings from a numbers station lulling him into unconsciousness through his earbuds. He got a packet of glow-in-the-dark stars and planets from the 24-hour superstore in town and stuck them up on the ceiling. It wasn't a replacement for the glow cloud or the mysterious lights which absolutely never used to flash through his window blinds at night, but it was a start.

He did feel lonely, despite his dad's best efforts to build a father-son relationship, and his own attempts not to think of his mom too much. He missed his mom. He missed his old friends. He missed his old town. When he was holed up in his room he could almost pretend he was still there, just relaxing and waiting for his mom to come home from work.

His dad seemed to be hoping that starting a new routine and meeting people his age would make him come around. Stiles wasn't so sure. The promise of 'making new friends' in no way made him feel any less anxious about actually starting school. The first day of the new year came waaaay too fast for his liking.

"Nobody likes transfer students," Stiles complained at breakfast that morning, picking at his toast.

In Night Vale the new kids who moved in always complained about how 'weird' it was, how 'strange' and 'creepy.' According to them no _real_ schools taught Modified Sumerian along with French and Spanish, or had an astral projection for an English teacher.

"You'll be just fine," his dad said, looking over a manila folder of paperwork. "You're a great kid, Stiles. I saw your transcripts, you're plenty smart, and you'll be charming everyone at school before you know it." He paused, clearing his throat. "You know, I've been meaning to ask, about those transcripts... "

Stiles' watch beeped, and he cut off a swear. "Sorry Dad, gotta go. I'm supposed to be there by seven-thirty." He jumped up from the table, nearly tripping over one of the rungs on his chair, and grabbed the keys for the beat-up jeep his dad had helped him buy.

He found a really great parking spot next to a Porsche, but even though he was starting to learn that Beacon Hills did things a little differently, he took one further away, near the back of the lot. In Night Vale, you never parked next to shiny black vehicles.

_Never._

He had to turn up early to get his course materials, but plenty of other people were already in the building even though it was still thirty minutes before the official day started. Stiles boggled at how good-looking everyone was. How... pristine. There wasn't even a single missing limb. Or extra limb. There were no sores, no pestilence, not even one hollow-eyed stare.

 _He_ was getting plenty of stares, but they weren't so much hollow-eyed as they were dismissive. God, he knew it. Nobody liked transfer students, even if you kept your mouth shut about how boring Beacon Hills was.

He found the office, got his timetable and a stack of textbooks from the disturbingly plain secretary, and went to go find his locker. It was tall and narrow with a gray door. It just had a regular twist-lock, no alchemical cipher, and there wasn't even a secret compartment in the back.

His first class of the day was Chemistry, with a Mr. Harris, and he barely found the right classroom before the bell rang. The room was full of two-person tables, and there were still a few open seats. Stiles froze as a whole new room of stares landed on him. Making a snap judgment, he went for an empty spot in the middle of the room. His neighbor at the table had shiny dark-brown hair, tan skin and a winning smile. Stiles smiled back, feeling a bit more confident. If they were going to be lab partners or something, he definitely wanted to work with the young Carlos look-alike.

"Hi," the young Carlos doppelganger said. "I'm Scott."

"Hey. My name's Stiles."

"Are you new?"

He nodded, licking his lips. "Yeah, uh, I just moved here."

"Cool, where from?"

Stiles had just opened his mouth to answer when there was a slamming sound from the front of the room, and everyone went quiet. A thin man, who must have been Mr. Harris, was looking down on them all, leaning threateningly over his desk. "Welcome to Chemistry. You all know my rules. And as for anyone who doesn't - " He curled his lip, looking dead on at Stiles. " - I'm sure you'll learn soon enough. Open your books to page four."

Scott gave him a sympathetic look, and mouthed 'after class' at him before turning away to tug his textbook out of his bag.

Scott pulled him out into the hallway as soon as the bell rang. A few of the other kids in class slapped Scott on the shoulder or thumped him on the back on their way out, including a curly-haired blond guy who glanced at Stiles and then shot Scott a meaningful look as he walked by.

"Sorry about Harris," Scott said. "He can be a real nightmare of a teacher."

"Yeah," Stiles said. He rubbed the back of his neck, then shrugged. "It's fine, I guess. I had a literal nightmare for a teacher at my old school, so."

Scott gave him a commiserating look, then leaned over to look at the stack of books Stiles was carrying, the timetable pinned to the top with his thumb. "Hey, what's your next class?"

"Um. Economics, apparently."

Scott smiled again, his whole face scrunching up. "Hey, me too! Oh man, you've gotta meet Finstock. Come on, I'll show you where it is."

Stiles followed him over to the stairs, glad he had met one cool person in the whole school. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

 

 

*

 

By the time his first week of school was over, Stiles had plans to go over to Scott's house on Saturday night for dinner and video games, and he had pretty much learned all the most important rules for survival at Beacon Hills High:

  * 1\. Never look directly at Lydia Martin for longer than three seconds.
  * 2\. Greenberg, like Steve Carlsberg, is to be ignored at all times.
  * 3\. Avoid Jackson Whittemore and Erica Reyes as much as possible.
  * 4\. Don't talk about Allison Argent in front of Scott McCall, or vice-versa.
  * 5\. Definitely do not park next to any shiny black vehicles. In fact, don't even mention them. Especially not the sleek Camaro he saw Isaac Lahey getting into after school on Thursday.



On Saturday night, after Scott thoroughly beat him at Call of Duty, Melissa McCall ordered them all some pizza. She asked Stiles how he liked Beacon Hills, and how was his dad, and how was his dad's police work going. It was a good time, and Scott's mom was really nice, but Stiles inadvertently blundered into discovering a new rule:

  * 6\. Do not acknowledge the statistically anomalous and brutally violent murders of several Beacon Hills residents over the last two years - the victims of which apparently included half of Allison's family and several former students and school staff members.



...Nobody told him any of this in so many words, of course. But Stiles wasn't stupid. He had perfectly functioning eyes (even if he only had two, not three) and an internet connection, and most importantly, he knew where to look.

It was a little bit awkward trying to follow some of the rules, because Lydia Martin was one of the most perfect of all the perfect students, and while Jackson Whittemore and Erica Reyes were both arrogant and mean and insulted Scott and Stiles on a now regular basis, they still hung around far more than he would have expected from two people who claimed to hate him. Still, there was nothing better than an upbringing in Night Vale to teach you how to accomplish the impossible. Or what the consequences were if you couldn't.

Another disappointment to Stiles was the Beacon Hills basketball team. Specifically, that it didn't exist. They did have a lacrosse team, and Scott talked him to signing up for the try-outs even though he'd never played lacrosse before in his life, but he didn't really expect to make the cut. When he told this to Scott, Scott just gave him a smug smile and told him that he was the team co-captain, so maybe Stiles would end up with a shot in the dark after all.

It couldn't hold a candle to the equally small town of Night Vale, but at least Beacon Hills was slowly becoming less lonely.

 


	2. Howl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter beta read by the generous and radical **Raccoonloon**. Remaining errors, suckitude and sheer lateness in posting is all on me!
> 
> Also, a general **thank you** to all you guys for commenting, leaving kudos, and/or just reading all the way through without curling your lip in disgust and clicking your back button. You're great!

The rest of September marched on and Stiles fell into a groove. He went to class, tried not to provoke Mr. Harris, and doodled pictures of Scott and Danny Mahealani, the Carlos look-a-likes, in his notebook. He absolutely never put down any Coptic Spanish on his Normal Spanish quizzes, and survived Lacrosse practice only by pretending Jackson Whittemore was from Desert Bluffs.

 

...Ugh. _Desert Bluffs_.

 

In fact, as the luster and excitement of the new year wore off, Stiles was getting more and more sullen. Classes were dull. There were never any parades or fairs in town, not even a poetry reading. There were no quarantines, blood stone circles, or states of martial law. Some of his classmates threw parties, but Stiles never got invited to them, and most of them didn't even involve costumes or ritualized ceremonial practices. Even the weather was boring; there hadn't been a single real or unreal or _un_ -unreal natural disaster or any inexplicable meteorological phenomena.

 

It was peaceful and stable. _Too_ peaceful and stable. He just wanted one glimpse of a feral dog disappearing around a corner. Just _one_.

 

The only thing that really made him feel at home was the abnormal, incomprehensible howling he heard echoing around town some nights when he was furiously pretending to sleep. Hearing it always lifted up his mood, but when he offhandedly mentioned it at the lunch table one day, Scott's face got a bit pale.

 

Scott was the only consistently great thing about Beacon Hills so far. (Well, one of the two things. Despite the notable lack of a secret police force and the suspicious looks the Sheriff shot him when he thought Stiles wasn't looking, there weren't any complaints to be made about his dad.)

 

Stiles and Scott had gotten into a routine every weekend, having sleepovers and playing far more games than Stiles ever had at home. Scott was good company, and Stiles never felt bored when he was around.

 

One Saturday night, when Scott had only been over for about an hour, their movie was interrupted by Scott's phone. He took one look at the screen, shot to his feet, and scuttled upstairs to take the call. Stiles paused the movie, idly picking at his fingernails, and only half-listened to Scott’s distressed, hushed voice, muffled through the ceiling.

 

When Scott came back downstairs, he had a sheepish smile on his face and was running a hand restlessly through his luxurious hair. "Hey, Stiles, I'm really sorry about this, but I gotta go."

 

Stiles tossed the remote aside, mouth dropping open in dismay. "You're leaving?"

 

"Yeah. I, um, got called in to work."

 

"Oh?" Stiles straightened up. Isaac had mentioned Scott having a part-time job once before, but Stiles had forgotten all about it until now. "Where do you work?" 

 

"At the animal clinic. Deaton's my boss - he's the vet."

 

"Sweet! So you get to play with dogs and cats all day?"

 

Scott smiled. "Well, I don't really get to play with them. I have to examine them and stuff. Clean the kennels. But yeah, it's pretty nice."

 

"Ugh, I'm jealous." Stiles sank back into the couch. "I should probably get a job, too. Back home I used to work at the bowling alley after school, and that could be pretty nuts sometimes. I think I'd like working with animals, though. My friend Brad got an internship at Night Vale Community Radio after he graduated, and there was this cat who lived in the men's bathroom at the station."

 

Scott had been glancing at the front door, looking distracted, but he laughed at that. "In the bathroom?"

 

"Yeah." Stiles grinned. "His name was Khoshekh. We kind of made him the station pet. I used to hang out with him while I waited for Brad to get on break." He smiled. "I miss that little guy. Cutest kittens, too."

 

Scott was still smiling, but it turned a twist apologetic. "That's awesome. Sorry I have to go so soon, but he really needs me to come in."

 

"Alright, man," Stiles said, sighing. "Whatever you've gotta do."

 

Scott left quickly after that. Stiles offered to give him a ride to the clinic, since that would be faster, but Scott just mumbled something vague and said he needed to take his bike. Stiles went back inside and debated what to make for dinner. Nothing fancy, now that he was just cooking for one. There was nothing decent in the fridge or in the cupboards. It was 8 P.M., which would be the perfect time for Flakey-O’s, only he had never seen any in the grocery store no matter how hard he looked.

 

What the hell did the citizens of Beacon Hills even _eat_?

 

*

 

There was a lot of howling Sunday night, which put Stiles in a good mood the next day even though every one of his sort-of friends started lunch without him, heads bent together at the table, and looked at him like he was an intrusion when he sat down. Their conversation immediately ceased, and all he got was a weak smile from Isaac and Allison. Jackson, on the other hand, looked at Stiles with disgust as if he had turned up dressed like the Apache tracker.

 

Stiles' instinctual Night Vale-ian senses were starting to tingle. This was seriously starting to get suspicious. First, his dad had quickly ended a phone conversation when Stiles wandered downstairs for breakfast, claiming that he needed to get to the station in a hurry. And now this?

 

"What's going on?" Stiles asked. For the benefit of any clandestine intelligence agents who would be watching, he angled his body towards the cafeteria windows and spoke slowly and with emphatic gestures. "Is this about that missing persons case? Because _I had nothing to do with that_ , if anyone is wondering."

 

The rest of the table gave him a bunch of eye rolls. Lydia actually stomped on his toes with her heel.

 

"Wow, Stilinski," Erica purred. It was no surprise to Stiles that she was radiant and tall enough to change a lightbulb, but other than that there was nothing angelic about her. She smirked at him, and bit into a clementine far more seductively than anyone he'd ever seen. "Good thing you cleared that up for us. Until now, you were on the top of our suspects list."

 

"Glad to be of service. I just wanted to make that information _absolutely clear_." Stiles smirked and stabbed his spork into the meatloaf on his tray. "So, how was work?" he asked Scott.

 

Scott blinked slowly, face going lax in confusion. "What?"

 

"Work," Stiles repeated. "You know, you got called in?"

 

"Oh!" Scott's face cleared up. "Yeah! It was... it was busy."

 

"That sucks." Stiles shoved some meatloaf and mashed potatoes in his mouth. "What did he need you for?"

 

"Um, you know. Just another pair of hands." He laughed, a bit stiffly. "So what did you do after I left?"

 

Stiles tilted his head to the side in a sort of shrug. He got the sudden feeling that everyone was holding their breath, like their fate depended on Stiles' next answer. Well, they didn't need to worry. As far as he knew, he had never gotten anyone in Night Vale dragged out to the old abandoned mine shaft.

 

He himself had been given some color re-education at city hall, but it had been worth it for the subsequent improvement in his art grades at school. Understanding the emotional auras governing the color wheel made a huge difference.

 

"Nothing special," Stiles told Scott. "I sorted through some more stuff I never got around to unpacking. Finished all of my homework on Sunday and then I was up late looking through some old pictures."

 

He'd never sorted them into a proper album or anything, but he had lots of photos of his mom, of his basketball games, of the night he was advanced to Blood Pact Scout, of him and Brad at the Chicken and Cigarette Fair. Their faces even showed up in most of the photos.

 

"Oh!" Allison straightened up, jumping into the conversation. "Do you have any with you?"

 

Stiles shook his head. "Not on me, but I can bring some next time. I used to have a couple pictures on my phone, but they all got erased." The new image files, mostly visual snow, were relaxing to look at, but they had overwritten a couple neat shots Stiles had taken with Brad and Mike Sandero.

 

"Well, you definitely should do it. I love photography." Allison smiled. She looked over at Scott. "Don't you?" There was a muffled thump under the table.

 

Scott winced and bent over his tray. "Ow! I mean, yeah! Of course!" He nodded frantically. "Hey, what about that cat you were telling me about, Stiles? Coat rack, or whatever. Any pictures of him?"

 

"Khoshekh?" Horrified, Stiles dropped his spork, and had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself. Scott laid a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles shivered at the touch. Isaac and Allison looked at him in alarm. Even Jackson squinted at him, like he was trying to decide if he should be worried. Nobody else at the table was even pretending to be minding their own business anymore.

"Nobody has any pictures of Khoshekh, dude,” Stiles said firmly. “No. Just...no. Don’t even ask about it.”  

 

"Why not?" Isaac asked, his eyebrows kicked up with curiosity.

 

Stiles shook his head slowly from side to side. "If you take a picture of him, you die in a week."

 

Boyd snorted a laugh. Isaac smiled and looked down at his own tray.

 

"Seriously," Stiles said again.

 

"What, like in ‘The Ring’?"

 

Stiles frowned. "What ring?"

 

The table erupted in laughter. "Nice one, Stilinski," Erica told him.

 

In short order, Boyd and Jackson started debating whether the 'Japanese original' or the 'remake' was better. (Whatever those were). Well, to be more accurate, it wasn't so much a " _debate_ " as it was Jackson sniping at Boyd, who refused to change his mind. 

 

Stiles half-listened, but he couldn't follow what they were talking about. He didn't say much for the rest of lunch, just focused on polishing off the rest of his meatloaf. You never knew when the next food shortage was due to arrive.

 

_Honestly_ , he thought exasperatedly, as he and Scott got up to dump their trays. _Sometimes it's like nobody actually listens to me_.

 

*

 

Stiles arrived at school early the next morning. He was even early for the morning training session Coach Finstock insisted on subjecting the Lacrosse team to.

 

The cruiser hadn't been in the driveway or in the garage when he left, which Stiles hadn't thought too much of. Still, he hadn't expected to see the Sheriff here, standing in the middle of the practice field and talking to Coach Finstock and looking like he was in acute abdominal pain. 

 

A deputy was marking off the far edge of the field, next to a thatch of trees, with bright yellow tape. Stiles blinked with surprise. Somebody was tied to one of the trunks, and even from hundreds of meters away he could make out dark brown stains on the bark. A cutting wind blew across the field, stirring the leaves on the trees, and the Deputy zipped her jacket up to her chin.

 

Stiles was starting to feel more and more at home here all the time. He smiled, swung his stick over his shoulder, and went to get a better look. 

 

Unfortunately, the Deputy stopped him before he could get very close. She held him back with one hand on his chest, the other hovering tersely near her sidearm. "Sorry, kid, you're gonna have to leave. This is off-limits while we're investigating."

 

Dismayed, Stiles glanced over her shoulder at the body. "But - "

 

" _Stiles_!"

 

His dad had finally noticed he was here. After waving off Coach Finstock, he jogged over to Stiles and the Deputy, his shoes leaving stark imprints in the muddy field. Stiles waved slightly, and couldn't decide whether to tense up or to relax. Which one looked more suspicious? He hoped he wasn't in trouble.

 

"Sir," the Deputy started, "I told him he wasn't allowed here - "

 

"It's alright," the Sheriff said. He nodded over towards the trees. "I've got this. You'd better get back to work."

 

The Deputy gave him a grateful nod and bustled off.

 

"Now, what on Earth are you doing at my crime scene, Stiles?"

 

Stiles mouth fell open and he scrambled for something to say. He had never done well with interrogations, something which had gotten him in hot water a couple of times, but he had always walked free in the end. Hopefully that wasn't about to change.

 

Warily, he stared up at his dad, cataloging the forehead wrinkles and the dark circles under the man’s eyes, and decided he didn't want to take any chances. "I didn't do anything," Stiles said quickly. He thumped his free hand over his heart. "I just came for morning practice."

 

"Morning practice, right. Lacrosse." His dad squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his nose. "Well, I really wish you hadn't been here to see this. Not that you could have known." He opened his eyes again and sighed. "Not that _anyone_ could have known. Well, I'm sure they'll be closing your school for today. You might as well head home."

 

Stiles tried not to let his disappointment show. He would have liked to get a better look at the body, see if he knew who it was, speculate on why and how they had died, that sort of thing. It wasn't to gossip with the neighbors, of course. It was just a healthy instinct for self-preservation.

 

"It's too bad," he mumbled, thinking longingly of all the other scenes of carnage he had wandered around in back home.

 

What ever happened to your good, old-fashioned, wholesome nepotism? With a dad who was Sheriff of the whole county, Stiles should be swimming in privileges. It just wasn’t fair.

 

"Yes." His dad sighed. "It's a damn shame."

 

Stiles reluctantly turned around and fished in his pockets for his keys. Maybe there would be something on the radio about the death - okay, probably not the radio. But maybe the evening news? Stiles normally found it a little too dull and uninspiring to watch, but maybe tonight he'd make the effort.

 

"Oh, and Stiles?"

 

Stiles looked back, feeling his chest lift with hope. Was his dad offering to let him poke around after all? 

 

"Be careful on your way back. Stay out of trouble. And call me if you need anything!"

 

_Apparently not._ "Sure thing, Dad," he called back, then returned to his jeep to sulk.

 

*

 

As he drove down the road that curved around the back of the school, an electric shiver raced up his backbone and pricked up all the hairs on his arms. Nestled amongst the dark of the trees he thought he might have glimpsed a glowing pair of eyes, or perhaps the flapping of a trailing black robe around a fallen branch.

 

But it was probably nothing. And nothing was probable. Which meant he definitely hadn't seen it because there was no ' _it_ ' to be seen.

 

Soothed at last, he popped in a CD to listen to on the drive home.


End file.
